ysobel: (Default)
I half wake; dozing, I realize
That the dream was a coherent and
Entertaining story.
I tell it to myself, over and
Over so I will remember when I fully

I do not.

Read more... )
ysobel: (Default)
The edges of my face are
tender, like the crispy
tightness of sunburn. It is
the wrong time of year
to be sunburnt -- winter is not
typical sunburn season -- and
the skin is pale, not red,
touched by water and fingers and
towel as it dried my hair.
Touching the pillow (same case as
there was yesterday) is like
the gentle rasp of sandpaper
to my skin.

It does not tell me why.

Somewhere on the back of my
scalp, left of center, is an oddly
sore spot, that did not appreciate
shampoo or the press of fingers
scrubbing. I do not recall anything
smacking me in the head, but it is
swollen just a little, bruised like a
super-ripened peach. I usually enjoy a
scratchy sort of massage with my hair wash,
soap almost secondary to the rub, but the
sore spots does not let me enjoy any
sensory pleasures.

It does not tell me why.

There are other complaints,
signals coming in from other
territories eager to claim their
share of complaints. Muscles are
tense and will not stay relaxed;
skin itches, dry or oily or both;
tightness around my nose means
something not good, but it has not
told me what is coming; right now my
sinuses are clear but carry a constant
threat of pressure, like a thunderstorm
stirring ominously on the horizon;
this moment my knees are content but any
shift threatens to bring pain; etc.

There may be an end to this litany of
sorrows, but it is far off, as far as
the possibility of a brain that does not
succumb to brainweasels, to the
twin agonies of anxiety and depression that I
seesaw between (and if I lose my balance
the fall is long and terrifying), to
shame that erodes and doubt that weighs down,
to all the things I am carefully not listing
so that I do not obsess over them, but
that does not mean they are not there,
skulking, waiting to devour.

They do not tell me why.

A cat poem

Oct. 31st, 2015 10:49 am
ysobel: (Default)
My cat
Is a stealth

She generally likes to be
Near but separate
Sitting on a cat tower
Or an unoccupied couch arm
In the same room as her people
And purring

But sometimes
If I am awake at the right time
I am aware of the foot of my bed shifting
And a cat-weight settling
At my feet

I can't see her but
I can feel the warmth and weight
On the arch of my left foot
And if I stretch my toes I can touch her
But I do not, because we have
An unspoken agreement
That neither of us ever admits
She is there

It would not do, after all,
To ruin her aloof image
ysobel: (fall)
Sometimes I wonder if ever the trees
Find themselves burdened with thoughts such as these:

"I am old, I am crooked and gnarled and squat
And all that I wish I could be, I am not.

Not tall like the redwoods that reach towards the sky
Nor bendy like aspen that shimmer and sigh.

My bark is uneven, not glossy and sleek;
My branches, when wind-stirred, don't whisper but creak.

My leaves have not come yet, my branches are bare,
Though warm is the weather and spring in the air.

The birds do not choose me, for perch or for nests;
The squirrels run elsewhere, as other trees' guests

I am old, I am ugly, I fail as tree
And yet there is not a thing else I could be."

...Do trees ever ponder on what could have been
Or what they should do, or how they can "win"?

Or do they just live and then die in due course,
Unfettered by fear or by guilt or remorse,

With roots to keep grounded, connected with earth,
That keep them from doubting about their own worth,

And leaves to leap skyward, aloft in the breeze,
To drink in the sun’s warmth and keep them at ease;

And never to fear about unused potential,
But simply to concentrate on the essentials

Of dreaming in winter, re-waking in spring,
Without undue worries of what time will bring.

Do trees ever worry? If not, then my plea
Is that someday I may be reborn as a tree.
ysobel: (Default)
Nature is not about perfection

Consider the trees:
They have lumps, and angles, and knobby bits
Places where a branch did not grow right
They are not perfectly symmetrical
See-- there is mathematics to them
But the organic sort of mathematic
Nothing rigid or unrealistic

Nature is not about permanence

Consider the trees:
The ones that year after year produce leaves
Only to have them die and fall away
And yet year after year it continues
And all trees grow and change
And in the end, die

And yet there is beauty to it all
To the scars and blemishes and rough awkward edges
And the sprawl of branches that fork and twist
To the bright newness of spring leaves, the sweet fragrance of blossoms
And the rich colors of autumn, the rustling dance of falling leaves
To branches that show skeleton-bare against the winter sky
And branches that hide from the summer sun in garb of fluttering green

Consider the trees
For they are never ashamed
Of what they are
ysobel: A kitten staring at its reflection; text: through the looking glass (through the looking glass)
(Butterfly cinquain: A nine-line syllabic verse of the pattern 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 2 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2)

there is
a great darkness
yawning within my soul
no one can see the void is there
it dwells deep within and swallows
all energy and joy
it consumes me
ysobel: (Default)
Someone tell me it's okay
to be falling asleep at 8
when I used to be able to stay up

Someone tell me it's okay
to miss a daily habit
when I did 455 days

Someone tell me it's okay
to take an extra pain pill
instead of worrying about

Someone tell me it's okay
to grieve over what I have lost
instead of forcing myself into

Someone tell me it's okay
to be the me that I am now
even if it's not what I feel I
ysobel: (Default)
There is a kind of sadness that lives inside me
A tight, choking, painful sadness
Hungry and hollow and needy and desperate
That has no name

My heart is sheathed in iron bands forged too small
My throat is sewn tightly and held closed
So that nothing may escape
Except the tears that leak unwanted from my eyes
And sometimes, if I am alone,
A low wild keening sound that slips past me

I do not know the face of this sadness
For it hides itself -- shame, perhaps, or secrecy
I do not know the name of this sadness
For it does not introduce itself -- it is just here

It might be grief
For things that were but are no more
Or things that never were or cannot be
It might be anger
Towards the world, the universe,
Or myself
It might be loneliness
For the isolation enforced by depression and disability
It might be pain
Too sharp for words or thoughts
Too primitive to be explained

It does not tell me, and it does not let me go
It will not be ignored
It can only be embraced as part of me
And endured

And perhaps
Since it is within me
ysobel: (Default)
Tuesday was the monthly meeting
Of the society of mythics

The first item:
Whether to remain as one group
Or split into land and sea

The kelpies and selkies
Wanted things to stay as things were,
While the mermaids
Were in favor of splitting
And brought to the group's attention
Two petitions for admission

One from narwhals
As the "unicorns of the sea"
Which made the unicorns (of the land)
Snort fire in frustration

The other from walruses
As "vampires of the sea"
To which one vampire raised a half-hearted objection
That they did not drink human blood
And a second vampire pointed out
That neither did the sparkly newcomers
And yet a third declared
Those were not true vampires either
And that side of the room soon devolved
Into comparisons of fang lengths

Meanwhile the trolls
Sat weeping great stone tears
Out of grief that their name had been diluted
By imposters -- mannerless rude uncouth
Drama-seekers on the internet
And were comforted by several giants
Who did not wear orange and black
And did not, as a rule, like baseball
Except as played "properly"
With a mammoth's thighbone
And a human head

Meanwhile the great green dragon
(One of the last of his kind not yet hibernating)
Was drowsing irritably in a corner
With a bad case of indigestion
From eating an airplane
That had strayed too close to its territory

Meanwhile the ghosts passed through

x-posted to tumblr here
ysobel: (Default)
I wish
instead of focusing just on
"save for a rainy day"
"save for a special occasion"
that we -- that I --
had been taught also
how to savor the moment

because sometimes
things cannot be stayed
indefinitely --
objects can go bad, dry out, turn stale
people and situations can change
nothing is forever

and sometimes
we do not have infinite moments
and saving something for tomorrow
does not work
if we run out of tomorrows

I need to remember
there is no better moment than now
no better place than here
ysobel: Mal (Firefly) with a gun; text: really not in the mood (not in the mood)
Whyyy do I let myself go shopping with my mom augh

I mean, okay, I know why. It's because I can't go alone (even places that I can get to alone, I can't reach anything at all, even shelves at my height or the stack of baskets or whatever), and I don't always have PAs on duty, and so going with my mom is the only way to get stuff


I am feeling ranty )

I kind of want to scream, or punch things, or something

and then walking back my thoughts devolved into pseudo-poetry about limitations )
ysobel: Pink bunny (bunny comics), drawing a bunny (art)
the world teaches us
to wear armor -- 
    spines -- 
        teeth -- 
            claws -- 
to be hard and sharp and 
let nothing in

it is worth remembering
how to be soft--
    tender --
        yielding -- 
            gentle --
to allow love and joy and
let the universe in


Aug. 31st, 2010 04:05 pm
ysobel: The back of a naked man in rope bondage, wrists tied together and fists clenched (kink)
I actually got a bingo in! before the deadline! I am awesome.

I find it highly amusing that I wasn't able to write White Collar fic until after I'd written a fucking *sestina*. But hey, whatever works.

I'm also amused at hit numbers on the AO3 page. I didn't link the fics anywhere, but I'd gotten a bunch of hits (30-odd, I think) even before obliquely mentioning their existance. Current stats is 0/5/61/67/11; I suspect they will spike now that kink_bingo people have access to them, never mind that there is a flood of posts right now.

Anyway, for those that are interested:

Butterflies (Inception (2010), Ariadne with shades of Ariadne/Eames, sleepy/unconscious)
Summary: Playing around with sex in dreams leads to interesting results. Sort of Eames/Ariadne, mostly not.
Content notes: none

Gestures of Love (White Collar, Peter/Neal, sensory deprivation)
Summary: Peter. Neal. Sex. In sestina form. Yes, I am a dork.
Content notes: none

Home (White Collar, Peter/Neal/El, penance/punishment)
Summary: Peter's work interferes (again!) with a promise to El; and broken promises deserve punishment.
Content notes: none

Captain's Orders (Star Trek (2009), Pike/Kirk, oral fixation)
Summary: In the Mirror Universe, Captains can own whomever they wish -- and do anything they want with them. Pike's got a boy that likes to use his mouth.
Content notes: (skip) Dubious consent situation; both parties are willing but the dynamics of the relationship don't allow true consent.

Expectations (Star Trek (2009), Spock/Uhura, whipping/flogging)
Summary: Uhura has disobeyed Spock's orders, and needs to be punished. Spock is a little baffled by this. (Please read notes for context.)
Content notes: (skip) Dubious or lack-of- consent situation. Spock is not particularly willing, and Uhura doesn't have the option of consenting.

(card here)
ysobel: (attacked by a pencil scribble)
My brain is weird.

(No, this is not news.)

I was going to let myself write crappy stuff for kink_bingo (since crappy is better than nothing, and anyway my judgment of crappiness is seriously suspect when it comes to my own work). And I tried. I wrote a bit of one prompt, a few hundred words, and it dried up. Wrote a bit of another, same thing. And k_b fics have to be at least 500, which right now feels like a marathon.

And then I saw the sleepy/unconscious square on my card, and my mind went to Inception, and I managed about six hundred words of ... something that is ... I don't know. I like the concept, I hate the execution. But anyway.

My brain then decides that, since I can't write fic, I should write -- wait for it -- a fucking-pun-mostly-intended SESTINA.

A slashy, kinky sestina.

I DO NOT DO POETRY. Except, apparently, when I do.

...And then I managed almost 1500 words of prose.

*eyes cross*

So, I've got one more day to do two prompts (oral fixation and whipping/flogging), and I will have officially gotten something in for the round of k_b. (And even if I don't, I achieved my goal of doing better than last year...)
ysobel: Blue bunny (bunny comics) holding a sign reading "I hate you" (hate you)
One trouble with the sonnet, strictly writ
Is one a gardener would know quite well:
A weed that plants its roots in dirt and grit
And grows and spreads and thrives for garden's ill.

Infectious rhythm, cadence, pace of speech
Once channeled to the five feet of iamb
Keeps clinging where it's placed, quite like a leech
And cannot be controlled behind a dam.

Once loosed, the meter spreads beyond all bounds
And dooms the hopeless mind it's trapped within
Until all words, all thoughts, all ventured sounds
Must fit the rules, else be a mortal sin.

So I, brain gone from bad to worse,
Spent twenty minutes making lame-ass verse
ysobel: (learning german)
I once knew what I wanted with my life
Some possible, some real, others not:
Wizard, author, doctor, prince's wife,
or mermaid, faerie queen, or astronaut

Such things are child's fancy, and are dreams
And who I am is not who was before.
The universe intrudes, and often seems
To leave you stranded on a different shore.

The stars are strange, the sun cold, and I yearn
For something I can hold to, something strong
To keep me standing (sort of) and not turn
When past seems safe and present somehow wrong.

My future must be elsewhere; new dreams call
And any path beats no path, after all.


...I have no idea why I decided to start this with a sonnet. I am not a poet arglequargh.

My roommates have started school, and I kind of miss it. I mean, I don't, entirely; I don't miss teachers who are confusing or incompetent or assholeish or whatever, and I don't miss busywork, and I don't miss assignments piled on top of each other, and I don't miss midterms and exams.

But I miss learning. I miss discovering. I miss things clicking into place htat didn't fit together before. I miss ... the parts of being in school that I don't not miss, which makes no sense at all and all the sense in the world.

So I'm thinking of trying something along the lines of self-schooling. No fees, no tuition, no teachers for me to please, no classmates, just me and the internets and books and paper and pencil.

The classes for this term (September 1 - sometime mid-December) will be:

1) Language. I have yet to decide whether German or Bulgarian, but I will settle that before the end of the month.

2) Creative Writing. Weekly exercises at first, then NaNoWriMo because I'd be doing that anyway and extra writing on top of that seems insane

3) Math. Nothing challenging, just brushing up on stuff because I want to eventually be able to tutor (...Dear self, no, you do not want to go get a degree in teaching, kthx) and it would help if I reviewed the subject matter. Probably hyper-accelerated since I've done all this before, just, you know, not since high school.

4) Chorus, which actually /is/ a university class (that I'm technically auditing)

That is sort of the equivalent of a full-time load -- equivalent classes at the university would give me 14 units -- without, hopefully, being overwhelming.

What I need to do before the end of August, then, is set up a study space, get the relevant math and language books where I can get at them without assistance, get some notebooks and pencils and a writing tray where I can get at it, and set up an approximate schedule for when I am doing which thing (and when I am off duty).

I don't have the best track record with independent study type things, but I choose to believe that I am not just setting myself up for failure. That this is something I /can/ do, and will, and can be proud of myself for doing. ...with that said, I wouldn't object to cheerleading of any sort, because, er, *wibble*


ysobel: (Default)
masquerading as a man with a reason

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